


Not About Angels

by WhenIFindLoveAgain



Category: Original Work
Genre: Diary/Journal, F/M, Friendship, Implied Relationships, Original Character(s), POV Original Character, POV Original Female Character, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:21:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23475361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenIFindLoveAgain/pseuds/WhenIFindLoveAgain
Summary: Something I wanted to write. A short inquiry of discographic soundtracks, coronavirus isolation,  relationships, friendships, dating, and the monumental cock up of them all.





	Not About Angels

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to use a lot Moe tags and other matters, bit archive of our own on my phone doesn't let me

I love discographic soundtracks. There's a few in particular; the ones that Alexandre Desplat wrote for "The Danish Girl" and "The Theory Of Everything" film adaptions, and others I used to find on YouTube when I was on my laptop at the library before everything was shut down due to the coronavirus outbreak. I never use YouTube on my phone. It puts my bill through the roof.

There's one soundtrack in particular I listen to - the one I'm listening to now as I write this.

"IT WOULD BE NICE IF THINGS COULD STAY LIKE THIS FOREVER". I'm not sure who wrote it, published it, performed it.

But I like it.

By the way, hyenas make a horrible noise don't they? I've got a David Attenborough documentary playing on my television in my sitting room just for some background noise. Do you have that need? I do. I can't work without some noise. Racket's no good. Must be noise. When I was little, David's voice used to put me to sleep. So did cars. Both still have that trick.

I've begun a new series of works; there's not much else for me to do. I've just had this flood recently.

I've been single for a very long time. And, you know, just before this coronavirus started, I decided to begin warfare on this matter.

Colossal fuck-up, that decision was. Cue the sighing. Anyhow, I suppose that's perfectly fine. It's been about a hundred years since the last global plauge. Suppose we were due in for another one. I had a date last year. We went to the local botanical gardens and had coffee - he had coffee, I had tea - underneath a hundred year old Slavic pine tree. How it worked...I'm myself, and he's...oh, dear me. A few embarrassing things happened.

I accidentally ran my foot up his leg beneath the table and passed it off as a hedgehog. "It must have been a hedgehog." I blurted. I had been swinging idly about like a twat beneath the table, you see. I felt like such a dickhead.

He was very handsome. He was nearly identical to someone I met in 2018 in a library in a little town called Kyneton.

This young man...a studying doctor. He was very handsome. Tall and of a nice size with curling dark hair. He had dark olive skin the same shade as my Welsh Dad's and his hair was faintly Burton style. He had on beige tailored slacks and light coloured jumper. He had black glasses, and a very nice mouth. Lovely jaw and cheekbones. I was taken aback. How lovely he was. That was the first time I saw him. The second time I saw him he had cut his hair, and was in jeans and a black Monash University jacket.

When I walked home later, my skin was so hot and tight and flushed red that I felt ready to burst.

I don't have my Dad's Welsh colour, though because of him I am Welsh too. I'm as white as chalk. The skin over my wrists and my neck and my cheekbones is translucent; you can see the map of my purple veins criss-crossing about. I'm so pale that people often think I'm ill.

I wonder if he thought that. Both "hims".

I'll probably shoot myself in the bloody foot by saying this. The first one was Nassar. I'm going even worse still.

I remembered him quite vividly for several months.

I was appalling. But, in actual fact, I wasn't. Anxiety, I suppose, especially over someone so attractive. Foolishness, too.

Shame burns on many things.

It's why I write so well. It all seeps out. It seeps out into everything. Everyone. In the several months I thought about him - I couldn't get him out of my head to tell you the honest truth - and I...

Now I can't remember what I was going to say. I had to break that sentence, get out my doona from my bedroom that's hooked up to my studio. The sitting room is nice and dark. It's raining. It's what I need.

There was a TV series called "Delicious" that had Dawn French. I watched it due to her. There a scene, the first kiss between two characters played by Tanya Reynolds and Rurari O'Connor. I recorded it from the DVD, due to the soundtrack - only thirty seconds long. I love it. The music starts off soft and searching, a gentle background noise if two people breathing and rain falling onto a wooden roof, with piano in the background. One finger at a time on the piano key, pressing down, pressing down. It Verona so gently and so heartbreakingly and beautifully when a cello joins in. I imagined...it's nearly too vulgar, too shameful to write. I imagine been held, by a man or a woman. Naked body. Naked skin. The vulnerability of humans colliding. The music begins to soar, and then rise, until it explodes, infinite and wondering and bright.

It's enough to make tears roll down my face. 

When I was talking to Nassar in the library, or a friend I lost last year, Belinda - whom I still think about all the time even though it's my fault - and even when I met someone knew a few weeks ago before the disease spread, a Sudanese man - so handsome and well mannered and wonderful - called Narli. That's what it sounded like. That's what it felt like. That was the music that had echoed throughout my brain and my bones and ran so gently and wholesomely and shatteringly beneath my skin. That had been it. 

The tears run down at the thought of those whom I lost and pushed away and just simply might never see again. It makes me frown in my sleep, in my studio, when I cook.

"Cunt." I whisper. My exorcism. Of them, of me. Other times, I can't help but torture myself.

"You're so fucking cold." I whisper to myself, of myself, wishing I could claw my skin apart and look like someone else but enough so that the new her was still like me so I could meet those people again - Nassar, Belinda, Narli - and, maybe, I could have them again. Nassar, he was just there. It's not as though he wanted me. Perhaps he remembered me. A shy, smiling, spotted, talkative short-arse in tipped denim jeans and a oversize Breton-striped top in a village library. Belinda wanted me. And I wad horrible. I exploded for no reason. Too much heartbreak inside. She didn't understand that I didn't mean any of it; that's just how I keep myself human. Let it rip out of me so I can be me again. She asked me to never see her again. And that was that.

It was November last year.

I miss her so much.

But the end would have come, some way or another.

I miss her hugs.

Narli, no. Narli - he was blissful. He was like a dream. He liked me too. He said about seeing me around. There was a hope in his eyes, a beauty in his smile. He had beautiful white teeth, a gap between his two front ones.

I remember it all so vividly.

I remember him so vividly.

I'm not sad. As such. I just want them. The longing ache; a hope for some magic to happen. Nassar comes across my Instagram blog and thinks it's funny. And when he finds out it is me - if he remembers me at all - he doesn't shudder in revulsion. He remembers those jeans, and that top of mine with the too long sleeves with the thumb-holes. He smiles.

_I've found her,_ he thinks. He wants me.

Belinda to call me up and ask if I'm alright with this coronavirus going about. We lapse back into the way we were. How wholesome and lovely it was. For me, it was. Perhaps I annoyed her. I definitely ruined her in the end. She wished me all the best. Maybe she was sincere. 

But I upset her. I hope I didn't. But I did. Disappointment. 

I don't know. 

And how lovely would it be for Narli to find me again.

Sigh it out. Look at what I have spilled. How much I have written. 

Belinda was a good friend of mine for about eighteen months, I think. But there are things she didn't know about me. She didn't know my age, for instance. Belinda is much older than me. In het late fifties. How would she have reacted if she had realized I was only fifteen? Would she have forgiven me? Or would she have been further repulsed by me?

Not a day goes by that I don't think about her. Shed probably not like the thought of that; think of it ad obsession.

I was so happy with her. And, now, I just don't have that anymore. 

Life is still the same. Life still goes on. But I don't see her anymore.

I felt like a piece of me had died when I fucked that up. I sunk to the floor of my studio and I just cried and cried and cried. 

This initially was supposed to be a happy piece; a candid piece. A...

I'm not quite sure what's happened to it now. What's happened to me now. 

**Author's Note:**

> Instagram: @theartoftootimingyou


End file.
